Crushed pieces of stone barely displace insect sounds,
As gravel sheds each step toward the field--
In the dark, footprints are useless--and
Trees slide out of view on the ink-black side of the
earth.
Enlarged eyes harvest what they can:
A waning crescent moon, star specks, and
Memorized scenes of grass blades and weeds
Covering a hillock and leading down
To a small pond, no bigger than a pig’s wallow.
The wall of char-black trees encircles the mound,
Blots out low-horizon stars and creates a ragged edge
Around the hill’s center as eyes dissolve without glowing,
One particle at a time, into the blinding night,
Numbing cold and senseless void focused above
Like a vignette from a Holga lens.
While the earth pulls at one’s flesh drowned in a dark
flood
That leaves only star spatters to read on the ceiling and
Suspends the weight of a timepiece buckled around the
wrist,
An unwound remnant no longer ticking--
The sounds of insects vibrate and cross the sky as a
stone
Etches a pale line of light.
© cmheuer,
2013
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